


(870): He wrote me poetry. 12 hours after getting my number

by kendrasaunders



Series: Legends College AU [3]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, But with a RipSara focus, Multi, Multi As Hell, but literally everything's there if u look
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 02:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7872250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kendrasaunders/pseuds/kendrasaunders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>okay so you know how sometimes you write a poem about your hookup's vagina and then that poem accidentally makes it into the school publication? you know that feeling? that's what rip is going through right now. and really, he'd rather be dead. just a little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(870): He wrote me poetry. 12 hours after getting my number

**Author's Note:**

> honestly dedicated to that time in the comics where ray palmer went on and on about how romantic carter was. but no homo broski

_9:45 AM, Rip’s Room_

 

The first thing Rip does is lock the door. That warrants a raised eyebrow here and there, a few concerned glances between the group, and a raised hand from Kendra.

“Put your hands down,” Rip says. “You’re not here to ask questions.”

With an indignant huff, Kendra lowers her hand. “Well if you’re going to be weird about it.”

Rip ignores the comment, instead opting to bridge his fingers over his mouth and mutter quietly to himself. 

“You know some of us have class in-” Jax checks his phone. “Twelve minutes, right?”

Rip glances up. “You all received my message?”

“You mean the text you sent in all caps that read, ‘MY ROOM, NOW, DONT TELL SARA!!!!’” Len asks, raising an eyebrow. “Or did you send us something as equally rational since the time we got here?”

“Something terrible has happened,” Rip says. “Something gravely terrible. I may have to leave the school.”

“Oh my God,” Ray says. “Did you kill Sara?”

“What?” Rip says. “No, Ray. I didn’t-“

“She was still sleeping when I left our room, so I’m gonna say he didn’t,” Kendra says.

Ray grabs her arm. “But did you check her pulse?!” He insists. “Kendra, did you???”

“No, Ray,” Kendra says, though she doesn’t move out of his grip. “She was snoring, so.”

Ray slides his hand from Kendra’s bicep to her wrist. “Oh.”

Rip blows a puff of air through his lips, letting it bristle against his mustache. “I wrote-” Rip pauses. “I wrote a poem.”

“Ew,” Mick replies.

“And that poem,” Rip continues. “Somehow made it into the student publication.”

“You mean penis mightier?” Len asks.

“Pen Is Mightier, yes,” Rip says. “Last month, it was right-” He gestures to his desk. “And it went missing, and I figured I must’ve thrown it out, it was such rubbish, but then I get an email this morning and-” He runs his hands through his hair. “Which one of you thought this would be funny?”

A silence.

Ray lifts his hand. “I didn’t do it to be funny,” Ray says. “It was really good! I thought you’d want it published!”

Rip nearly falls over. He manages to lumber to where Ray is sitting on his bed and gently cups Ray’s cheeks. “You thought I would want you to publish a poem about SARA’S VAGINA?!”

“Hold on,” Len says. “Hold the fucking phone, Hunter. You wrote a poem about Sara’s vagina?”

“Is that even legal?” Jax says. “I feel like it shouldn’t be.”

“He’s right,” Len says. “We need to call our congressman. Mick, who’s our congressman?”

“I didn’t know it was about vaginas!” Ray finally manages, over Mick’s indignant grumbles about local politics.

“HOW COULD YOU NOT KNOW, RAYMOND?!” Rip insists, digging his thumbs into Ray’s mouth.

Ray gently sucks on Rip’s thumbs, before realizing that’s not what Rip meant. With a shrug, he says, “Mpth?” 

“Hey,” Len interjects. “Don’t yell at him. The real issue is that you wrote a poem to begin with.”

“And I’ll repeat, ‘Ew,’” Mick adds.

“You’re overreacting,” Kendra says. “Carter writes poems about my vagina all the time.”

“But do you enjoy them?” Rip insists, moving from Ray to Kendra. He grasps her face. “Do you, Kendra?”

“I mean-” Kendra wrinkles her nose as Rip paws at her. “I’m sure you write better poems.”

“I like Carter’s poems!” Ray says.

Kendra meets Rip’s eyes. “I see your concern.”

“I have to leave the country.” Rip moves his hands to his own face, pulling at his cheeks. “I don’t even know if I can return to England. I could be excommunicated for this. I have to move to Siberia, be a nomad-”

“Our congressman is Ted Kord,” Mick says. “Whoever the fuck that is.”

Ray perks up. “Dr. Kord is an esteemed engineer and-“

“And now he’s wasting his time on local politics,” Len says. “Call him, Mick. We need to put a stop to the madness.”

Mick shrugs. “Sure. Whatever.”

“Can I please go to class?” Jax asks. “Because if I’m late, I’m going to tell Dr. Stein why. In detail. And then this can be his problem.”

“GO,” Rip says. “ALL OF YOU. JUST GO. GO, AND DESTROY ANY COPIES OF THE STUDENT PUBLICATION YOU SEE.”

“You know no one reads those, right?” Len says. “You’re going to get more people to read by making a scene.”

“I’M NOT MAKING A SCENE, LEONARD,” Rip says. “I AM TURNING MY SUICIDE NOTE INTO PERFORMANCE ART.”

“Dark,” Kendra says, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Anyone want coffee?”

“I could go for it,” Len says, unlocking Rip’s door with one of the multiple copies the gang had made. “Rip? Coffee?”

“Fine,” he snaps, wisely ignoring Len’s set of keys. “Let’s all just agree not to speak of this again, and maybe it will all blow over.”

“It will,” Kendra says. “So long as you don’t make a scene of it. It’ll be just fine.”

“I have never,” Rip says. “Ever. In my life. Made a scene. It’s not English.”

“Sure, honey,” Kendra says. “Okay.”

 

 

 

 

_10:34 AM, CC Jitters (Central City U Branch)_

 

 

Rip settles over his cup of tea, staring forlornly at the little piece of wisdom written on the end of the bag-string. “I don’t know who this is supposed to help.” He flicks at it. “‘Build self esteem first and the house later.’ What does that even mean? Am I taking on a construction job? Am I a carpenter, now?”

“Nah,” Kendra says, stirring her latte. “It just means you should hate yourself a little less.”

“Never,” Rip seethes. “How dare you.”

“I’m with Kendra, actually,” Len says. “I mean, how bad could the poem have been? Really?”

“All poetry is terrible, by default,” Mick says. “So really, you’re probably not even going to be noticeably bad.”

Rip sucks in a breath. “I compared Sara’s vagina to the glow of the morning sunrise.”

A beat.

“Wow,” Mick says. “I take back my previous statement.”

“I think you were right, though,” Kendra says. “One time, Carter compared my vagina to a glovebox. Where we keep our virginities.”

“Holy shit,” Mick says. “We really do need to ban poetry.”

“I’m telling you,” Len says. “It’s an epidemic.”

“A glovebox?” Rip says. “Really?”

“Carter is super bad at writing poems,” Kendra says. “I cannot emphasize this enough.”

“Letting him get away with it is only going to make it worse,” Len says. “You’ve got to put a stop to it.”

“It’s too late,” Kendra says. “They were super romantic when we were fifteen, okay?”

“If only Carter had the brain of a nineteen year old,” Len says. “Then we’d all be okay.”

“I wouldn’t be,” Rip murmurs, angrily holding his cup to his lips.

“You gonna drink that, or are you just wetting the ol’ ‘stache?” Mick asks. “Speaking of which, was wetting your mustache also a line from your poem?”

“YOU!” Rip yells. “DO NOT!”

“Do you want a xanax, or something?” Len asks. “We know a guy.”

“What I want is to dig myself a very small hole,” Rip says. “And then I would like to crawl into that hole, and then I would like to cover myself with dirt, and then I would like to die.”

“Rip.” Mick tries to reassuringly pat him on the back, and ends up slamming Rip’s chest into the table. “The publication is called ‘penis mightier.’ Who’s honestly going to pick it up?”

“You do know that’s not what it’s called, right?” Kendra says.

Len and Mick shrug in tandem.

Rip falls into a decided slump, splaying his legs across the ground. “You’re probably right,” he says. “I mean, I know Sara won’t read it, and I haven’t seen any copies around campus and-“ He pauses, the ruddiness draining from his cheeks. “Good lord.”

“Rip,” Kendra asks. “You okay?”

He’s already knocked his chair over, practically flung himself over the table, and made it to the pastry display before anyone can stop him.

“It’s a bad day to be reading penis mightier,” Len says.

“Isn’t it always?” Mick adds.

Rip has a quick exchange, which ends with him snatching the publication from its owner’s hands. In another incredible show of grace, he makes a beeline back to the table, and only almost trips over himself twice.

“Mick,” he hisses, holding Pen Is Mightier to his chest. “I need a lighter.”

“Which one?” Mick asks.

“Whichever one I can BURN THIS BOOK WITH, MICHAEL!”

“Geez,” Mick says, reaching into his coat. “No need to use Christian names.”

“Rip,” Kendra says, in that honeyed tone she usually saves for babysitting. “Didn’t we all agree the best course of action is to not-“

“STUDENTS OF JITTERS,” Rip announces, climbing onto their table. “I HAVE GRAVE, HORRIBLE NEWS.”

“So we’re just going to let him do this,” Kendra says.

Len leans back in his chair, grinning like a fox. “Yep.”

“I’M SURE SOME OF YOU HAVE SEEN THAT THE STUDENT PUBLICATION, PENIS- PEN IS MIGHTIER, HAS BEEN RELEASED! AND I HAVE TO STRESS TO YOU, TO ALL OF YOU-“

“You’d think one of the employees would stop him,” Kendra says.

 

“If I was getting paid minimum, I wouldn’t either,” Mick says.

Kendra purses her lips. “Fair.”

“THE VILE, HORRIBLE LIES BEING DISTRIBUTED CANNOT STAND!” Rip says, waving the publication in the air. “IF YOU SEE IT, I ENCOURAGE YOU ALL TO-“ He flicks his thumb over the lighter. “You should all-“ Another few clicks. “Mick!”

Mick sighs. “Must be empty.” He procures a spare from his pocket, trading off with Rip.

“Really?” Kendra says.

“Hey,” Mick says. “I’m seeing this to it’s logical conclusion.”

“Thank you,” Rip says, quickly. “STUDENTS! BURN THE PUBLICATION! BURN IT TO ASH!”

And with that, he lights the lower corner of Pen is Mightier, and holds it triumphantly over his head.

“You’re right, Rip,” Len says. “This is way less embarrassing than a poem about Sara’s vagina.”

For a brief, shining moment, Rip gets to ignore him. The Jitters is sparsely populated, since most students are in class.

One person even tries to clap.

Which is exactly when the fire alarm goes off. And then the sprinklers.

“Perfect,” Mick says. “Exactly what I was hoping for and more.”

Kendra covers her coffee with her free hand, glowering up at Rip. “Necessary, Rip.”

Rip doesn’t reply. He’s hoping if he stands still enough, atop a table, as the sprinklers rain down on him, that the earth will swallow him whole.

“Someone get him,” Kendra says. “I don’t want my stuff getting wet.”

Mick gets up out of his seat, grabs Rip by the waist, and slings him over his shoulder.

“I don’t-“ Rip says. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I’m sure penis mightier will be happy for the advertisement,” Len says. “Since, you know. No one actually read it until now.”

“Can we go dig me a grave?” Rip says. “I’d very much like a grave.”

“Sure,” Len says. “I keep shovels in my car.”

“Wait,” Rip says. “Do you really?”

“Yep,” Len replies.

“Why?” Kendra asks.

Len’s nonplussed. “Reasons.”

 

 

 

 

_1:47 PM, Some Far-Off Corner of the Quad_

 

Ray arrives with a bright grin and a boxed lunch, slinging his arm over Rip’s shoulders. “You don’t eat when you’re stressed,” he says, placing the box in Rip’s lap.

“And why on Earth would I be stressed, Ray?” Rip says, scribbling something into his notebook. “It couldn’t be because you took one of my private poems and sent it to the student publication, could it?”

Ray deflates, and God damn it, Rip can’t help but feel guilty for it. “You left it on your computer,” Ray says. “I thought you wanted Sara to find it, and then she’d read it and it would be romantic-“

“So somehow, in your head, this is more romantic?” Rip asks.

“Well, it was at the time,” Ray says. “I mean, come on. You didn’t even use her name!”

“It was filth!” Rip protests.

“It was good!” Ray says. “And you should be proud of yourself for getting published. Look at how many people are reading the publication!” He gestures to the quad.

And he’s right. Everyone is reading the publication. Rip’s not going to tell Ray why, though. He sinks against Ray’s side, grateful that Ray can at least be the warm blanket he’s so desperately needed all day.

Which just makes him feel more guilty for snapping. Rip pinches the bridge of his nose. “Ray, I-“

“I get it,” Ray says. “I was just trying to help, and I’m sorry.”

“But I shouldn’t have-“

“And to make it up to you,” Ray continues. “I’ve asked Carter to come to campus and talk to you about poetry.”

Rip glances up at Ray, eyes wide. “What?!”

And now Carter’s hands are on his face. “I came as soon as I heard,” Carter tells him, as Rip desperately tries to move out of his touch. “Poet to poet, I want you to know you’ve done nothing wrong.”

It’s like being trapped between a warm, snuggly rock and Carter’s gentle, gentle caress. And here Rip had thought he’d never get another chance to be so uncomfortable in public following the Jitters incident. And so soon! Truly, someone in Heaven hates him.

“Please just sit down, Carter,” Rip says. “There’s really no need for you to touch me.”

Carter nods, like he understands. And then immediately sits next to Rip, and puts his hand on Rip’s knee.

Well. Apparently he’s going to be gay on campus. “So why are you here, exactly?”

“Ray told me everything,” Carter says. “And I’m sure you’re aware, as a fellow writer of erotic poetry-“

“Please don’t say that to me,” Rip says. “It was an accident.” 

“There’s nothing accidental about love,” Carter says.

“I would argue that there definitely is,” Rip says. 

“Like, look at me,” Carter says. “You’d say I’m pretty masculine, right?”

“Yes,” Ray says. “Very. You’re like, super-buff, and you smell amazing, and-“

“I am starting to see why Kendra latched on to Sara so quickly, yes,” Rip says.

“The point is,” Carter says, like he and Ray aren’t making eyes at each other with Rip sitting right between them. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of having a soft side. It’s part of you. I can be super buff and super romantic.”

“And you are,” Ray says.

“If you are going to suck Carter’s cock, please don’t do it out here,” Rip says. “I really just wrote a poem, this isn’t-“

“I’ve actually brought some of my poetry,” Carter says.

Ray perks up. So that’s perfect.

“Just-“ Rip gestures. “Just give it to me. For the love of God, don’t read it out loud. Kendra still has to show her face at this school.”

“That’s actually a drawing of Kendra’s face,” Carter says, flipping through the pages. “See?”

Rip tries to hold the book as far from his face as he can. “And those are-“

“Her breasts, yes.”

“That is…” Rip squints. “Uncanny, actually.”

“They’re my best subjects,” Carter says.

“Aw,” Ray says.

Carter turns the page. “And you can read the series of poems I’ve written on them right-“

“I have to go dig my own grave,” Rip says, untangling himself from the mess that is becoming Carter and Ray. “This was really great Carter, I do appreciate the support and Ray-“ Fuck. Ray has such warm, brown eyes. How can he stay mad at that? “It’s okay. Just ask me next time, alright?”

Ray gives a warm, loving nod. And Rip does get why Carter immediately cozies up to him, and nuzzles his neck. Because he’s a gorgeous man. But Christ. Do they have to do _that_ in public?

That’s got to be more embarrassing that a poem about Sara’s vagina.

“What to read my poems about you?” Carter says to Ray, in a voice far louder than anyone should be asking that question in.

“Oh,” Ray says, and Rip can feel him swooning.

He doesn’t _run_ from the scene. He just walks. Very quickly.

 

 

**Text from: Rip**

**To: Kendra**

Carter showed me his poetry

 

 

**Text from: Kendra**

**To: Rip**

OMG I’m so sorry???

 

**Text from: Rip**

**To: Kendra**

Also he showed me the drawings and let me just say…. you looked really good, actually

 

 

**Text from: Kendra**

**To: Rip**

IKR? I think Sara got off to one once. He can’t paint for shit tho

 

 

**Text from: Rip**

**To: Kendra**

If we could just get him to draw exclusively, then everything would be okay

 

**Text from: Kendra**

**To: Rip**

Too late he’s doing a series of watercolors of Ray’s dick

 

 

**Text from: Rip**

**To: Kendra**

I hate him

 

 

 

 

_5:40 PM, Rip’s Room_

 

He’s only managed to have two panic attacks, eat an entire box of American snack cakes, and write three transfer letters to the dean. He’s thinking a campus in Bulgaria. Or China. China should be nice this time of year.

He doesn’t speak any Mandarin. Should he learn? What if they translate the publication? WHAT THEN?

Are there campuses in Antartica? That would be nice. Seals can’t read. Seals can’t even feel shame. 

Fuck. He wants to be a seal so badly right now.

He’s interrupted with ideas of being a seal, and swimming in the icy slews of the Anartic Sea by three short knows on his door.

Three. Short. Knocks.

He’d have preferred to keep his door locked, probably forever, but it is past five and he is the RA and-

“Sara,” he says, looking up from his computer. “I-“ He gets up from his seat. “You have to understand, I didn’t-“

“It was alright,” she says, handing him a copy of the publication. “I left some critiques in the margins. I know I’m not like, an English major or whatever, but I’ve been told I’m a pretty good proofreader.”

Rip looks at her. The publication. Her. The baby seals that are dancing on the edges of his vision, because he is going to black out. “I love you,” he says. 

She cocks a smug grin. “I know. Dinner in 15?We’re all going down.”

“No, really,” Rip says. “I love you.”

“Well then get your shit together,” Sara says. “I’m gonna go see how many times I can make Kendra orgasm in 15 minutes. Our record is 6.”

“Wait.” Rip watches her walk away. “Wait, Sara, that can’t be good for Kendra, Sara-“

Her door slams down the hall.

He waits a beat. Maybe to torture himself, maybe to prolong the inevitable. He flips open to his poem, and thinks he might be holding his breath.

There, in Sara’s handwriting, are her critiques.

She’d read his poem. And she’d thought it was “heavy handed in places.”

It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to him. Written to him. On the margins of his poetry.

It’s the thought that counts. Probably.

God. He hates this school.


End file.
